


Between The Raindrops

by robindrake93



Series: Oh, River [1]
Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Annabeth Chase Is Her Own Warning, BAMF Thalia Grace, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Dionysus Is Hot, Gen, Good Luke Castellan, Luke Castellan & Thalia Grace Friendship, Nonbinary Thalia Grace, POV First Person, Percy Jackson Series Rewrite, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28476024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robindrake93/pseuds/robindrake93
Summary: After barely escaping a devastating fire that claims his mother and his home, fourteen-year-old Luke Castellan makes his way to Camp Half-Blood. Once there, they make him the sword fighting instructor and encourage him to embrace the demigod lifestyle. As if things couldn't get any worse, Zeus's master lightning bolt has been stolen, and Luke is the prime suspect.
Series: Oh, River [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085720
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> i. chapter one is the only chapter in third person; the rest will be in first person. 
> 
> ii. Ages of the minor characters vary based on need because I didn't want to fill the camp with OCs to match Luke's age in the original series...since he's the oldest camper at CHB by a large margin. 
> 
> iii. don't reupload/repost my fics.

One fine day in May as the setting sun turned the clouds red as blood, three children and a young satyr ran for their lives from a pack of hellhounds. The hill they climbed was not the biggest mountain humanity had ever scaled but to the four of them, it felt larger than Mount Everest. For you see, they had been running for a very long time and they were very tired. 

“We’re almost there!” The satyr called encouragement. On his nimble goat legs, he could have outdistanced the hellhounds in a sprint. Unfortunately for him, this was an endurance run. However, seeing home so close gave him one last burst of speed. “Just over this hill!” 

None of them saw a sneaky little shadow that appeared in the path of the small blonde girl and wrenched her foot out from under her. It was there only long enough to do the deed. There was a loud crack, a cry of pain, and the girl fell. 

The eldest girl in the group scooped the injured girl into her arms. She struggled on. The younger one was slender and small but exhaustion made even her weight feel ten times more than it was. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other. “Is Percy far behind us?” She asked the girl. 

The little girl looked back and said, “He’s right behind us.”

This was the truth in the loosest sense. 

The young boy named Percy was in fact behind them but the distance grew between the fleeing trio and the boy. Percy had stopped running when he saw the little girl fall because his heart was good and pure and he wanted to buy them some time. He withdrew a pen from his pocket and uncapped it. The pen grew and shifted into a glowing bronze sword just right for a boy Percy’s size. 

Alone, the boy faced the pack of hellhounds. 

Alone, he fell to the sharpness of their teeth. 

Thanks to his sacrifice, the two girls and the satyr reached safety. The elder girl set the younger one down. When she noticed that they were missing someone, she screamed, “Where is Percy?!”

As the salty blood of the boy spilled into the earth, it was known by all gods and goddesses that he was dying. When the boy’s father learned of his son’s fate, his grief and rage made the oceans swallow ships and the earth quake powerfully. He went to the hill and the hellhounds melted into the ground with terror at his mere presence. The god scooped up the broken and bloody remains of his son. “This will never happen again.” 

As the god spoke, Percy’s blood flowed and multiplied until it was a river that encompassed the entirety of the sanctuary he didn’t make it to. His bones became stones in the river, his hair became the plants that grew from the sand, his flesh became magical black fish that would let no one except demigods cross the river. 

And that was how everyone remembered Percy Jackson, the seven year old son of Poseidon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermes wants Luke to go to Camp Half-Blood. Luke learns not to say no to the gods.

The oven door creaked open a second before the foul odor of sizzling flesh hit my nose. A loud bang followed the scent and covered up a string of mild curses. 

I rushed into the kitchen. 

Mom stood in front of the open oven, hands blistered and a cookie tray on the ground. The cookies were burnt black. She bent to pick up the tray again, her long white hair falling toward the open oven. 

In the blink of an eye, I was at her side, guiding her away from the oven before she could light her hair on fire. “I’ll take care of it, mom,” I said as I led her to the sink and ran cold water over her hands to leach out the heat of the burns. 

Mom smiled at me, a sort of dazed and unaware smile. Her eyes were a pale seafoam green, almost colorless. “Thank you, Luke. I don’t know what happened.”

“You forgot your oven mitts,” I explained. “Just stay right there.” Quickly, I closed the oven door and turned it off. Then I put my hands into the neglected oven mitts and picked up the hot tray of burnt cookies. If I didn’t need the stove to cook with, I would have disconnected it a long time ago. When the mess was cleaned up, I returned to mom’s side. 

Mom dutifully kept her hands beneath the water while I cleaned up, staring at a photo of my father taped to the window above the sink. Her hands were still an angry red. Mom didn’t have pretty hands. She almost always forgot to use oven mitts and touched hot trays at least once a week. There were scars upon scars and blisters within blisters ruining hands that might have once been pretty. If they ever were, it was before my time. 

I turned the water off, then led mom to a chair. Our first aid kit was permanently housed on the kitchen table because of how often this happened. I opened it and withdrew a jar of pale yellow cream. The jar had no labels and when opened, it smelled faintly of apples. Gently, I rubbed the cream onto mom’s burns. 

Mom winced as I touched her burns but the cream had a numbing agent that kicked in fast. Soon her burns were soothed. They would heal to scar tissue in a few days. “You’re so good to me, Luke. I should make your favorite cookies.” 

“You already did, mom,” I said gently. I glanced at the cookie tray, at the blackened mess I would have to scrape off later. My heart was heavy. I rubbed the excess cream into my hands and then twisted the lid back on the jar.

Mom looked confused for a moment. Then her gaze slid past me. She perked up and gave a delighted laugh. “Hermes!” Mom stood up and brushed past me, going to fling her arms around the neck of a tall man. 

There stood Hermes; the messenger god, the god of thieves, inventor of the lyre, my father. He was tall with a lean athletic build and he always wore jogging shorts that were too short and tight. His hair was black and curly, his eyes an unnerving blue the same vibrant color as glacial waters. 

I got my curls from dad, though they were golden like my mother’s hair used to be. My eyes were his shade of blue, but watered down to match the cloudiness of mom’s pale eyes. I thought that I could see Hermes in my facial features and the broadness of my shoulders, and I didn’t like that because I didn’t like Hermes. 

I hung back, waiting until dad was done hugging mom before I said, “Hi.” 

“Luke,” dad said, managing to sound stern and affectionate with one word. He didn’t try to hug me. We weren’t on hugging terms. Usually we weren’t on speaking terms. Dad only visited when he wanted something from us, so I wasn’t happy to see him. 

“I told you he would come back,” mom said to me. Her smile was bright and happy. The burns on her hands had healed to scar tissue. 

That was another thing I hated about Hermes. He could heal mom but he didn’t want to. Oh sure, when he was around he healed her physical wounds and he was the one who gave us the burn cream. But Hermes refused to heal mom’s broken mind. He was a god; if anyone could do it, he could. 

Hermes kissed the side of mom’s head. She looked like an old woman compared to him; stick thin, hair white and stress lines on her face. “Of course I came back, May.” His voice went soft and gooey when he spoke to mom. 

I hoped he didn’t stay long enough to have sex with her. Every time they had sex, I worried he would get her pregnant. Mom wasn’t on birth control because she needed to be able to go to the doctor for it and she never left the house. I bought our groceries once a week but that was the extent of what I could do. 

I crossed my arms and waited for Hermes to get on with it. Anxiety was a knot in my gut. 

Finally, Hermes turned his attention back to me. “Let’s talk in the living room, Luke.”

“I’ll make cookies!” Mom said. 

“Mom, why don’t you make some kool aid instead?” She couldn’t hurt herself making kool aid. “I’m sure dad is thirsty.” I glared at Hermes. 

“Kool aid would be great, May,” Hermes said amicably. His eyes flickered to me, silently saying _look what I did for you. I’m helping you._

I kept my expression neutral. 

Mom went into the kitchen to make yet another pitcher of kool aid. She made a new one every day. Our fridge was full of it. 

I followed dad into the living room. We stood beside the empty fireplace. There was a picture of me on the mantle, beside a picture of mom and Hermes together. Mom looked a lot younger and healthier in the picture. “What do you want?” I asked. 

The corner of Hermes’ mouth twitched in annoyance. He didn’t like being talked to like that. But he didn’t say anything about it. “On Long Island there’s a camp for demigods to live and train. It’s called Camp Half-Blood.”

I frowned. I’ve never heard of a place for demigods. Then again, the only time I left the house was to get groceries. And what kind of name was _half blood?_ “And?”

“And it’s time that you attended,” Hermes said. 

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Why would I do that? I’ve got a place to live and I don’t need the training.” Purposefully I looked to the kitchen, where mom was making kool aid and talking to herself. “And I can’t leave mom alone.”

Hermes followed my gaze to mom. His expression softened as it always did when he looked at her, but his eyes also looked terribly sad. “I’ll take care of her.” 

My anger got the better of me, exploding up in a fountain of rage. “And how are you going to do that when you’re hardly ever here? I’m the one who’s been taking care of her for fourteen years. It’s a full time job!” Logically I know I’ve only been alive for fourteen years and someone had to take care of me when I was a baby but as far back as I could remember, I’d been the one taking care of mom. 

Hermes was starting to look angry. Fire flickered in his eyes. “I have other obligations -”

“Bullshit!” I snarled. 

Mom poked her head into the living room. “Everything alright?” She asked with a smile. 

“Yes, love,” Hermes said calmly. “Go back to what you were doing.” 

We were silent until mom went back into the kitchen. 

As plainly and firmly as I could, I said, “I’m not going. I won’t leave her.” 

“They need a sword fighting instructor. Too many demigods are dying because they’re untrained,” Hermes said as though I hadn’t spoken at all. Normally I would be flattered that dad paid enough attention to know that I was an expert swordsman. After all, I’d trained myself and practiced on the monsters that lurked in the copse of trees outside of our house. I was good and I knew it and under different circumstances, I would have liked dad to acknowledge that. 

“No,” I spat. “I’m not going. That isn’t my problem.” I poked a finger into his chest. “ _My_ obligation is to stay here and take care of my mother. Tell them to find someone else.” 

Hermes brushed my hand away like he was brushing dirt away from him. Some of the fire had left his eyes and he looked almost proud of me even as he kept arguing. “They don’t want anyone else,” he said. “It’s in everyone’s best interest if you go willingly.” 

“No.” 

Hermes heaved a great sigh. His expression was horribly sad and more tired than I’d ever seen. I expected him to keep arguing but he didn’t. He just walked into the kitchen and wrapped mom up in his arms. 

I was left in the living room, alone and unsettled. I knew you weren’t supposed to deny the gods anything, but surely they would understand. Even though I couldn’t prove that it was their fault, I was pretty sure that whatever was wrong with mom was the gods fault. Surely if they were going to destroy my mom’s mind and leave me to take care of her, then they would, well, leave us alone, right? 

Hermes stayed for dinner and helped me cook it, even though I kept snapping at him to quit touching my stuff. Afterward he danced with mom in the living room. They laughed and talked late into the night. Then they retired upstairs and the creaking of the mattress springs told me they were having sex. 

I pulled the pillow over my head and tried to ignore it.  
  
  
  


Dad was gone by morning. He left without saying anything to me. This didn’t come as a surprise. He usually only came to visit mom, not me. Sometimes I wondered why he had me if he didn’t want me. Maybe it was so that I could take care of mom while he was gone doing godly things. 

The next week passed normally. 

Mom wouldn’t stay out of the kitchen or stop burning cookies so she got hurt again. One of her day dresses was so blackened that I made the executive decision to throw it out and promised to buy her a new one. She talked about Hermes a lot, blushing and giggling and sighing happily. 

The obvious way that mom loved Hermes made me feel bad because I couldn’t share her feelings about my dad. We never really got along and as I got older, the animosity only grew. I thought he should be doing more for us, _with_ us. Hermes kept making excuses. It felt like he was abandoning us, like we were pets that he only checked in on when he remembered we existed. If he really loved us, he wouldn’t try to pay us off with money and medicine and all the damn baking ingredients. Even giving me Reaper felt like he was abandoning me to the monsters and trying to buy my affections at the same time. 

I guess I should explain about Reaper. Reaper is what I named the weapon that Hermes gave me when I was five. It’s scimitar, which is a short sword with a curved blade that sharpens to a point. Think of a certain rags to riches animated movie and that’s what it looks like. Except that Reaper is made of celestial bronze, which glows golden. It looks like a pocket knife until I flick the blade out, then it turns into the scimitar. Reaper is pretty cool. Having the sword has been helpful and I like using it, but it always reminds me that Hermes won’t bother to protect and take care of us. 

As the days passed and life returned to normal for us, I began to relax. Maybe dad really did accept my refusal. Maybe they found someone else for their camp. Looking back, I was so naïve.  
  
  
  


Twelve days after Hermes left, I woke up to mom screaming my name. My eyes and lungs burned. I sat up in bed, trying to catch my breath but unable to, coughing all the while. Black smoke hung in my room, filtering in through the crack at the bottom of my bedroom door. I stumbled to my window and threw it open. The clean air wasn’t enough to dispel the smoke from my lungs. 

I took a few deep gulps of predawn air. Then I went back into my room, crossing to the door. The knob was hot under my hand but didn’t burn me. When I opened the door, a cloud of smoke billowed into the room. It stung my eyes and nose, made them water. Smoke hung so thickly in the air that I almost passed out, sagged against the wall as a spell of dizziness washed over me. I used my shirt to cover my nose and felt my way along the hall. 

Mom’s bedroom was empty. So was the bathroom. That left downstairs, where the heat and smoke were coming from. I made it to the stairs and paused. 

Orange flames leapt up along the wallpaper, greedily consuming everything they touched. The walls blackened and glowed neon orange as the wood and insulation were consumed. At the bottom of the stairs was a human body, scorched beyond recognition and still being eaten by fire. Only after I saw the body, did I realize I could smell the acrid reek of burning flesh. “Mom!” I croaked. 

The fire started up the banister, coming toward me like it was hunting me. It almost looked like the fire had horns and hooves and massive shoulders as it stormed up the stairs to me. 

I stood frozen, staring down at the burnt body of my mother and the fire coming to kill me too. My head spun. I was so dizzy and everything was hazy. As the fire grew closer, my skin began to blister. 

“Luke! Run!” Mom’s voice came from beside me. She sounded more urgent and sane than I had ever heard her before. I twisted and there she was, a transparent blue version of herself. Aside from being blue and transparent, she looked just fine. Mom made frantic gestures to me. “Get out, Luke! Save yourself!” She tried to push me back to my room but her hands went through me. “Oh, my beautiful boy, mourn later. I can’t rest until you’re safe. Go!” 

Mom’s insistence snapped me out of it. I stumbled to my room. The air was a little cleaner here, just enough that I had the sense to grab Reaper from beneath my pillow. 

Behind me, the fire roared and howled. It popped and hissed as it consumed the hallway and burst through my open door with a bellow. The heat was unbelievable, like sticking my face near the open oven. 

I ran to my window. This was the second floor. How would I get down? There was nothing to climb. 

The fire reached my bed and grew so large that a wave of heat knocked me out of the window. Or maybe mom defied the limits of death and pushed me. I would never be sure. 

It was not the best landing ever but it definitely could have been worse. I landed on my hands and feet like a cat, but the ground was uneven and one of my wrists snapped. Pain twisted up my whole arm. 

“Get up, Luke! Get away from the house!” Mom’s voice hissed in my ear. 

I crawled on my hand and knees away from the house. My eyes and nose streamed. Every breath hurt. The fresh air on my blisters hurt. My wrist throbbed. When I reached the trees that lined the edge of the yard, I collapsed in the tall grass.  
  
  
  


I must have passed out because the next thing I knew, the sun had risen. It hung orange in a smoky sky. The smoke wasn’t the only strange thing about the lighting but it wasn’t until I lifted my head from the dirt that I saw the flashing lights of firetrucks and police cars. 

There were two fire engines, an ambulance, and three cop cars parked in the U-shaped driveway. The fire had been put out before it could spread across our overgrown lawn and to someone else’s house. But it had completely consumed my house. All that stood was a single support wall. People in uniforms were picking through the rubble that used to be my home. 

My home was gone. My mother was gone. 

As much as I wanted to grieve, I didn’t have time. Eventually, someone would notice me and I couldn’t let them take me in. If there was one thing that mom had instilled in me, it was that mortal authority was bad and I needed to stay away from them. Their good intentions would only spell out trouble for me. Without getting up, I bellycrawled away from the house. 

I crawled for fifty feet until I came to the end of our property. A hedge fence grew tall between us and the neighbors. When I was smaller and needed a place to hide from mom when she had one of her fits, I’d come to the hedge. Careful pruning over the years kept the center hollowed out so it was a good way to travel if you didn’t want to be seen. Now I was bigger so the branches scratched and tugged at me but I still managed to squeeze into the center of the hedge. It was cool here, and smelled like earthy decay. 

A coughing fit overtook me. I used my arm to muffle the sounds. When it finally subsided, I was tired and once again aware of how much pain I was in. All I wanted to do was sink into the cool earth and rest. But I couldn’t stay here. There was nothing left for me here and the mortals would eventually come looking for me once they realized that there was only one body in the ruins of the house. 

I crawled through the long hedge for a long time. Without both hands, it was slow going. My wrist was swollen to the size of an orange and I didn’t dare try to put weight on it. As I crawled, I tried to plan my next move. Where would I go from here? What would I do? 

I was still wearing my pajamas but they were singed and smelled like smoke so I’d have to find new clothes. Should I steal from a house or risk finding a store to steal from? In the end, I decided that if I found a house with some clothes outside that looked like they’d fit, I would steal them but if I encountered a store first, I would steal from there. Coming to a decision made me feel a little less lost. 

My neighborhood wasn’t the kind where people left their laundry out to dry on clotheslines. In fact, there weren’t even clotheslines in the yards. So I was forced to walk to a department store and steal what I needed. We only had high-end department stores near my house, the kind that I never went in because they made me feel dirty and poor but I felt better about stealing from one of these stores than from the sole Goodwill. 

When I walked into the store, no one looked at me; not the employees or the customers. I couldn’t make them look away or modify their memories but I _could_ make their eyes slide over me and my features blurry. They would know that they saw someone but wouldn’t be able to describe me. It was a trick I used to get our groceries every week and using it made me feel somewhat normal. Or it would have if the circumstances were different. 

Using the powers I inherited from Hermes made me unhappy but this was for survival. Survival was the only reason I ever used my powers. 

I grabbed a backpack, a bunch of clothes - socks, underwear, shirts, shorts, a jacket - and selected a pair of shoes. Then I went to their dressing rooms and put on a new outfit. Getting dressed with only one working hand was awkward and painful. Every time I so much as brushed against my swollen wrist, tears sprang to my eyes and I had to grit my teeth to keep from crying out. Even ripping off the tags was a challenge and I ended up using my teeth for that more often than not. What I didn’t wear went into the backpack. Then I left out the less used side doors. I was in and out in no more than ten minutes. I threw my old pajamas into the dumpster behind a fast food joint. 

I told myself that the new clothes made me feel better. Even though my skin was still blistered and tender. And I smelled terrible from the house fire. And I was covered in dirt from laying in the yard and crawling through a hedge. At least I had shoes now. 

My next stop was to a gas station for a drink from their fountain area. I filled up a huge cup with ice and water. Water never tasted so good. The cold made my lungs hurt but soothed my throat. I refilled the cup and then left without paying for it. 

All of the walking - and crawling - I’d done gave me time to think and plan my next move. As much as I hated it, I only saw one logical course of action. I would have to go to Camp Half-Blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm... I wonder who set that fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be whenever I finish the next chapter.


End file.
